Why Can't We All Just Get A Longneck?
by LoneWolfPhoenix
Summary: What happens when 4 wrestlers who seemingly can't stand each other get stuck in a hotel room together? And what happens if the author is a cynic? Hilarity ensues (so I hope)! Give it a shot and review!
1. The Beginning Of The End

Y'all, I'm back! Yes, the inspiratorial (is that even a word?) bug has bitten me in the bum once again, and my cynical side has decided to rear its ugly head. I will warn you, anything you see in this fic will be pure sarcasm. It will be brutal, it will irritate a few of you, and in hope it will leave you in tears (of laughter, once again me hoping). It's been a long bloody summer (no phone, no TV but 2 channels de Spanish, and living quite literally in the middle of a cornfield), so my cynicism and sarcasm have reached epic proportions. The dam has broken! You are forewarned!

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_Chapter 1: The Beginning...Of The End_

_Open the story with an introduction worthy of War and Peace, not Curious George_

The day dawned dark and dreary, the effects of the wind and rain the previous night having taken their toll. The four friends sat in their hotel room, an empty bottle of wine lying across the table limply, dripping the last few bits of wine onto the carpet in a methodical, staccato rhythm. The man on the couch stared at the offending bottle, the twitch in his eye marking time with the drips hitting the floor, each appearing to be a sonic boom throwing itself at the mercy of the worn out beige carpet. The migraine he had going from the day before was only making his foul mood worse.

"Nothing like a rainy day to make the mood cheerier," mused Randy. He walked away from his position at the window to flop unceremoniously in the lounge chair near the fireplace. The four of them were stuck in the miserable weather, away from their families and jobs, due to the fact that one VKM thought it would be nice to get shots on the beach in Florida. Unfortunately, he hadn't checked the weather beforehand, and now said compatriots were given a wonderful room on the top floor of a hotel with a hurricane bearing down on them at breakneck speed.

"And on the top floor no less. Don't I feel safe," mused Jericho, poking around at the less than acceptable room service food. At this point, all he wanted to do was get home, but because he had the inability to say the word no to his boss, he was stuck with three people he couldn't stand, in a hotel room he didn't like, in a city he didn't know, with food he couldn't eat. Suffice to say, he wasn't in the best of moods, and Randy's offhanded comments were only serving to irritate him. He was only lifted from his foul mood for a few moments when Adam finally snapped, that twitching eye of his getting to him and he threw himself at the table, smashing through it but succeeding in slaughtering the offending wine bottle. A sadistic sort of grin was donned on his face.

"How like you Americans. No class, no elegance," slurred a slightly drunken Sylan Grenier. Adam looked up at him and growled, going to stand over him and, grabbing his neck, proceeded to drag him across the room, throwing open the door to the balcony and stuffing the small Frenchman onto the equally small balcony, slamming the door behind him and glaring at the two men now watching the spectacle. With as much dignity as he could muster after having taken out the overpowering prowess that was the coffee table, he sat himself firmly in the middle of the ruins, beginning a stare down with the two men.

"Nice move Edgeward. You got took out the evil Dr. Chardonnay and the equally as dangerous Kauf E. Table," said Chris, mindlessly flipping through the magazine he had, watching as Randy threw the remote for the TV across the room, shaking his head as it shattered into three pieces, watching as they littered the floor. The youngster took his spot on the bed, then, grumbling under his breath. "And now Randall takes out the taser like remote control. And you two are the ones getting the push." Chris ducked as Adam made another flying leap, this time aimed at him, only to have Chris deftly move out of the way. Shaking his head, Chris got up and went to his suitcase, pulling out his pajama pants and heading into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

"Shouldn't you let Sylvan back in," said a haunting voice. Randy got up to walk to the door of the balcony, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he tried to clear any and all thoughts of anger from his mind. It was unbefitting a man of his stature. Adjusting the tie still firmly around his neck, he straightened out his custom tailored sleeve cuffs and opened the door to have Grenier rush him, tackling him to the ground in a fit of happiness befitting a wet dog just come in from the rain to see his master. Realizing his blunder, Sylvan stood up and straightened himself out, the familiar sneer coming to mar his features once again.

"Stupid Americans. Throwing me out in the cold, always resorting to violence first" he said, staring defiantly at Adam. Adam, for his part, remained outwardly calm, simply standing up and throwing a right hook, catching Sylvan at just the right point. The Frenchman went down, holding his face gingerly as Adam pointed to the still open balcony door, the anger radiating off of him telling him all he needed to know. Sylvan wised up enough to grab a pillow and blanket on the way out, mumbling under his breath about stupid Americans.

"I'm a fucking Canadian damn it," yelled Adam, slamming the door shut with force and locking it again. He turned to Randy, watching as the young man loosened his tie, tears coming to his eyes as he saw the watermarks and a slight tear in the side. "You open that door again, and you two numb nuts are going to spend the night together on a romantic balcony for two." He turned for the side room, then, closing the door behind him, the deadbolt lock heard sliding moments later as Randy realized that he had two equally disconcerting options: either sleep on the couch, or share the bed with Chris. Considering the couch was a two seater, he unfortunately opted for the bed, undressing himself in a darkened corner before sliding into the bed, staying as far to one side as possible.

"You even think about crossing the middle of this bed or touching me in the middle of the night so help me God I'll make you a soprano so fast even RuPaul will be jealous," growled Jericho, getting in on the other side and glaring at the young man, inwardly smiling as he saw the terror cross his eyes. He found that Jericho was asleep sooner than expected, giving Randy the chance to use the one device that nobody knew he had: a working cell phone. Standing by the window to get good reception, he dialed the first number he could think of.

"Ric? Ric, you gotta help me man. I'm stuck with the sarcastic pain in the ass, the angry Canadian, and the mouthy Frenchman. I've got a few minutes left on my phone, and the worst part of all....THE CABLE'S OUT! I CAN'T WATCH SPONGEBOB!"

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Like I said, cynical, sarcastic. I would like to add that it was inspired by The Helldragon's Yu-Gi-Oh Fanfiction For Dummies (whoever this guy is should be given some sort of award. He's hysterical). Stay tuned. I'm only getting warmed up. To point out a few things in closing:

a) Tolstoy is currently rolling in his grave

b) Should my Russian Lit teacher read this, I'll likely fail the course

c) I will likely end up in a strange sort of position in the afterlife, torturing those souls in hell with bad joke after bad tagline after bad cliché after.......


	2. To Sleep Or Not To Sleep With Each Other...

I hope y'all liked the last chapter. My sarcasm muse is working overtime right now. That and I'm in the process of avoiding writing an essay I have due on Monday. It wouldn't be a problem if I didn't have to perform a "close reading" of a section of a book I've yet to finish. Here's to hoping Folgers has my solution.

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_Chapter 2: To Sleep, Or Not To Sleep...Together?!_

_When building your characters, remember, consistency is key, and it should be as thick as pitch_

"You bastard," said Chris, jumping out of bed. "You've got a working bloody cell phone and you don't tell any of us?" Chris started to chase Randy around the room, Randy gripping the phone as he started to dodge behind furniture, trying to talk Chris into calming down. He mentally slapped himself for not talking in the bathroom, then realized that if Chris hadn't have heard him, Adam might've as the bathroom connected the two rooms. Chris was a better choice at that point, though he was seriously starting to reconsider that decision. It wasn't long, though, before Adam was roused from his slumber, his tired eyes surveying the room.

"Would you two asshats shut the hell up? Some of us would like to be sleeping right now," he growled, running a hand over his face to rid himself of the tiredness he still had in him. He couldn't have been sleeping very long if the two of them running around the room had woken him up. He glanced briefly to the balcony door, seeing Sylvan pounding mercilessly at the double paned glass, not knowing that nobody could hear him, but likely knowing that nobody cared at that point. Adam walked further out of his room, standing in front of Randy's frantic path, bracing himself as the young man ran into him. Randy turned to face him and screeched like a little girl, throwing the cell phone at him before running back over to the bed, ducking underneath it.

"If it were any other time, I'd find that incredibly funny," said Chris, watching Randy scramble to fit underneath the bed, finally succeeding in doing so. He turned to Adam, then, who was holding the cell phone still, and held out his hand, waving his fingers in a gesture that meant he wanted the phone. "Come on Junior, I don't have all day. I need to talk to my wife." Adam glared at him, raising an eyebrow in question, before taking the phone, punching in a few numbers, and going back into his room, shutting the door and bolting it. Chris ran at the door, slamming face first into it, falling backwards. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he stood up, looking at the door, and kicked it once for good measure, screaming as he stubbed his toe.

"That's it! To hell with all of this! I'm going to find another room." Chris went to the door and opened it, only to slam it shut, turning around to face the empty room with a face as white as a sheet. He made his way mechanically to the bed, and, kneeling down next to it, told Randy that someone was there for him. Randy looked at Chris hesitantly, but decided that Chris likely wouldn't be lying to him. Crawling out from under the bed, he stood up and went to the door, clearing his throat and dusting himself off. Opening it, he poked his head out the door, looking up and down the hallway before shutting it. He walked back over by Chris, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Not amusing assclown," said Randy, flopping back down on the bed. Chris looked at Randy confused before heading to the door, opening it to find the same man standing there, a low rumbling growl coming from his throat. He immediately slammed the door, diving underneath the bed, shivering for all he was worth as Randy leaned over the edge of the bed, looking strangely at the man beneath it. Even Sylvan had stopped his belligerent pounding on the glass to glance with disgust at the man crawling underneath the bed. If one could read lips, they might've seen him say something along the lines of crazy Americans. Randy gave up and curled up in the blankets, going off to sleep again.

"This is crazy," Chris finally said, crawling out from under the bed a few minutes later. "I'm seeing things. There's no such thing as ghosts." Walking to the door, he stopped and stared at the handle. Mentally slapping himself, he opened the door to find the same man standing there. Glaring, he reached a hand out and watched as it shot straight through what would have been the chest of...well, whatever was outside the door.

"That tickles," it said, giggling uncontrollably as it floated into the room. Chris watched wide eyed as it drifted around, a contemplative look on its face as it surveyed the interior, making a few choice remarks here and there before turning to the door, seeing Sylvan still on his rampage against the glass. Shaking his head and making a tsking sound, he floated over to the door and unlocked it, beginning to open it before being thrown across the room as Sylvan took full advantage, bolting into the room and straight for the door which Chris was now blocking. The ghost had gone sliding over a small table, knocking over a vase before crashing through a chair, lying in a hazy pile on the floor.

"You've been hanging around this room for how long and you didn't realize that was a bad idea," Chris mused. "Apparently smarts don't travel to the afterlife." The ghost reassembled itself properly before floating toward Chris, going right through him before floating out the door, leaving Chris to deal with the now incensed Sylvan. It was a tough fight, but after a few minutes and a little help from Randy, the irritating Frenchman was back on his perch, red in the face with anger. The bolt sliding through the lock of Adam's room told the two of them all they wanted to know, yet the fear kept them paralyzed in place.

"Alright. That's it. Out! Out with the two of you," said Adam. "I'm not getting any sleep, and I've had to listen to Randy complain about Spongebob more than my three year old niece." Teaming with Randy momentarily, the two of them forced Chris out the door, Sylvan willingly stepping out of the way this time, smirking as Chris knocked into the side of the balcony, gripping the railing to keep from toppling over. Randy turned to Adam and smiled, only to find himself shoved out on the balcony, the familiar click of the door lock sounding behind him. Turning, the three men plastered their faces against the window, watching as Adam stretched and headed over to the queen size bed formerly occupied by Chris and Randy, pulling the covers back over himself and peacefully drifting off to sleep.

"You even have Spongebob boxers? What are you, two? How the hell did you make it through the company this far," asked Chris incredulously, just now noticing Randy's attire, or lack of it. The three of them were standing out on the balcony staring at each other, nobody really knowing what to say. Sylvan looked about to start in on another of his Americans are (insert phrase here) rants, but one look from Randy and Chris ended that.

"I wouldn't talk Scooby. Now what the hell are we supposed to do? Between the three of us we have one pillow, one blanket, and three pairs of underwear," said Randy. Chris was too busy glaring at him to notice the ghost watching through the window, laughing hysterically at the situation the three men found themselves in. Sylvan looked at the two men verbally battling it out and rolled his eyes, leaning against the glass door and looking at his nails. Eventually they'd come full circle back to him. The faint click of the door was heard behind him, though, and panicked he looked to Randy and Chris, smirking as the two stood there arguing. Reaching an arm behind him he pulled the door open just enough to slip through, closing it quickly and locking it behind him, waving at the two men as they finally realized what'd happened.

"What the...how did you get back in here," said Adam, sitting up in bed. Sylvan just glared back at him before heading to his suitcase, digging through his clothes before finding another bottle of wine, sighing with pleasure once the bottle was opened. Sylvan turned back to Adam, then, and downed the bottle, licking his lips and the rim of the bottle to get the last drop before speaking.

"You're a fucking Canadian, I'm a belligerent Frenchman, those two are angry Americans, and now I'm going to bed," slurred Sylvan, heading into Adam's former room, shutting the door behind him and locking it, quickly climbing into bed. He found a remote on the nightstand and decided to give the TV one last go, finding that it did indeed turn on. Flipping through the channels, he settled on a familiar cartoon. "I wonder what's so interesting about this...Spongebob," he thought, settling in for the night, secretly relishing the fact that Randy didn't know this was working.

By now Randy and Chris had given up, Chris currently possessing the blanket while Randy held the pillow. The two were at a standoff, neither willing to budge or negotiate the surrender of their item of survival. Randy looked at the pillow, then the blanket, then back to the pillow, and finally to Chris, raising an eyebrow in question, knowing Chris would be able to read the look on this face. "If you tell anyone about this, just remember this: I once worked at a vet's office. I know how to castrate you in your sleep." The fear in Randy's eyes spoke volumes as he lay the pillow down on the cold cement of the balcony.

Chris grimaced as he lay down next to the young man, his back facing him. Nearly asleep, he was shocked back awake when he felt Randy's arm go around his stomach, pulling him closer as he searched for body heat. 'This assclown is SPOONING with me,' thought Chris, a look of death coming over his features. "SCALPEL," he shouted, shocking Randy awake and out from under the blankets. Chris turned his head to glare at him, quietly reminding him to keep his hands off the merchandise. Rolling his eyes and mumbling something about homophobic people, he lay back down.

"Chris," he said hesitantly, not wanting to further anger the man.

"What the hell is it now," he asked, feeling his anger already rising. He'd dealt with enough that day already.

"Can you tell me a bedtime story?"

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Well folks, that's another chapter done! Yay for me! I'll likely post another chapter tomorrow, but for now, in closing:

a) The hurricane is still coming toward them....

b) Sylvan is still the slightly drunk belligerent Frenchman

c) I'm beginning to realize that I have a lot of undue hostility toward wine bottles and tables


	3. The Ghosts Of Yesteryear

I know, I know…Long time no see. I was all up on this story at first and then the holidays/papers/finals/the vicious, life sucking beings known as parents entered the picture and voila! No time to do anything. This has been kicking around in my head for a while and an incredibly odd yet wholly good set of circumstances (read I ripped an air conditioner out of my window and crawled about on the roof of my dorm with kandiland last night) led me to write. RAWK!

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_Chapter 3: The Ghos__ts of Yesteryear_

_Character weaknesses are fun. Especially when they make the bad asses seem like girlie men._

"Morning honey," mumbled Chris, snuggling up close to the warmth next to him. He sighed with contentment, his mind happily tucked away in dreamland, his body now flush against the one which he was laying his head across the chest of. He felt arms tighten around his waist and his wife sighed, kissing his forehead. He closed his eyes again and drifted back off to sleep, mumbling something about a horrible dream about a hotel.

"Morning babygirl," said Randy, slowly opening his eyes a few minutes later. Through the sleep induced haze he could make out shapes, but not much else. He could feel a bit of weight on his chest and smiled, looking down and blinking a few times to get focus back. When he did focus, he froze in place, unable to convince himself to move. He lay there still as night while Chris managed to curl himself up still closer to him, nuzzling his chest with happiness, or so it seemed to him. Randy could feel his breathing speeding up, a sure sign of the panic to come…or it could be getting ready for the fight that might break out at any moment.

"What the," began Adam, looking out the window. He'd woken up a few minutes ago and had taken his time stretching, going to get out of bed. He stumbled his way over to the balcony, hoping to find that the three men whom he'd thrown out there the previous day had somehow found their way to…anywhere but around him. What he found, however, was the horrified and frightened face of Randy silently pleading with him to help him out as Chris tightened his hold around the young man's waist. The pouting bottom lip added to the picture. Adam went back to his bag and pulled out his camera, silently opening the patio door and stepping out, focusing the camera in order to get the right picture. After all, they were worth a thousand words…or one really good rumor.

"What the hell was that…WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING," screamed Chris, opening his eyes and lifting up his head, looking around him. His eyes focused on Randy, who was by now cringing, covering his face with his hands. Chris looked down and found his arms wrapped around Randy's waist. That didn't last longer than the time it took to realize it as he flew backward, struggling to stand up, only to fall over, tumbling ass over teacup over a chair, sending both of them flying toward Adam. The two men and the chair went flying through the open patio door, coming to a stop in a heap in the middle of the living room, the chair winding up on all fours.

"Now who's got the blackmail oh great Canadian bastard," said Randy, smirking as he took a picture of Chris and Adam. Adam had landed on top of Chris, his head lolling to one side of Chris's as he reached up to grab the side of it, his face scrunching in pain. He growled and turned his head, his eyes growing dark with anger. He was up in a flash, but the past few days had taught Randy a few tricks of his own as he rushed out the door, camera still in hand, slamming it behind him. He stood there, putting his full body weight against the handle to prevent Adam from getting out, watching as the angry man rushed the door only to smack into the glass, bouncing backwards to trip over Chris's still prone on the floor body.

"What the hell are you three American bastards doing out here? Some of us require beauty sleep," shouted Sylvan. He looked around at the scene in front of him and rolled his eyes. Adam was at the door, yanking with all his strength at the handle, shouting obscenities at the glass door. When he stepped a bit further out into the room, he noticed Randy on the other side of the door, pushing with all his strength to keep the door between him and the Raging Canadian, Randy laughing as he did, a camera at his feet. Chris was lying on the floor, arm over his eyes, shaking his head, muttering a conversation with himself. Sylvan shook his head and turned back to his room, shutting the door behind him. "This is who these higher up people think to put me with. How obtrusive. How repugnant."

"Hey blondie, why the hell don't you go cool off and take a shower already? I can smell you from here," said Chris. Adam glared and turned, looking at Randy, a warning of things to come being sent in his stare. He stalked over to his bag, pulling out his showering things and towel and headed to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He turned on the water, throwing his towel on a hook over the door. Stepping into the steam and water, he sighed, finally able to relax. These past few days with the three other men he'd been stuck with weren't high on his list of things to ever do again, and he found himself wishing he was home again, alone.

"You mind? I was trying to sleep asshat. And…whoa. No wonder you're angry," said the ghost, giggling as he looked up at Adam from the floor of the bathtub/shower. Adam looked around, looked down, saw the ghostly face, and turned the water off. He shook his head, looked down again, and in about three seconds was hopping out of the tub, bolting to the door, screaming. He finally got the door open and bolted through the room, diving under the covers of the bed and screaming again, shaking uncontrollably.

"Who brought a kid into the room," asked Sylvan, emerging from his room. He looked around to find Randy and Chris standing there staring at the large bed in the room, and he found himself watching a lump under the bed shaking. He walked over to Randy and Chris, wanting to ask them what they were doing, when a scratchy, low, gravely voice came from somewhere else in the room. The three men shrieked, Sylvan hopping into the arms of Randy as Chris grabbed Randy around the waist, hiding his head in his shoulder. Randy stood there scared stiff, watching as a transparent figure came out of the bathroom, shaking its head.

"You know, it's no wonder they sent me after you four. You're ridiculous. One under the covers, one in the guy's arms, one huddling at his side, and one standing there like a coat rack. And you Frenchie, how the hell do you survive in this business, huh? I'm surprised you haven't had your head torn off yet. And you Christina, what's with the cowering," he continued. The three men found their movements again, though, and all of them broken and ran for the bed, diving under the covers to join Adam, the four of them huddled together in a circle, talking nervously and quickly to each other and themselves, causing pandemonium underneath the blankets. The ghost just sat back and rolled his eyes, running a hand down the front of his face, trying to figure out what lottery in hell he'd won to be stuck with these four…charges.

"Wait wait WAIT dammit," shouted Chris. "I've got the cell phone. We can call someone, you know," he said, his hand shakily fishing the phone out of his shorts pocket. He put it in the middle of the circle of the four of them.

"Who the hell are we going to call, the Ghostbusters," said Adam.

"An exorcist," asked Chris.

"Mommy," said Randy.

"A therapist. You've all lost your fucking minds," said Sylvan. "It's some sort of mass delusion. We're all stuck in this Bates Motel model with Norman Bates delivering our food and next thing you know there's a ghost in the bathroom that probably has a knife and someone's going to get stabbed to death and we're all going to die so just SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP," said Sylvan, panicking. "WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, DON'T YOU GET IT?" Adam, Randy, and Chris all went to hit him at once, knocking the unfortunate Frenchman out could.

"Why not Vince? If that bastard sent us here, he can sure as hell get us out of here," said Adam, grabbing the phone and dialing up Vince. He held it close to his ear and mouth so he wouldn't have to be too loud with the noise of talking, hoping that silence would scare the ghost away. On the fourth ring a secretary answered the phone. Adam shouted in a panicked voice that he needed to speak to Vince right away, that it was an urgent emergency.

"Would you four quit whining. And for the record, you're not dying," said the ghost, poking his head through the covers at the men. Adam shot out from under the covers and leapt into the closet, closing the door behind him, his hand shaking the door as it closed it. A few seconds later Vince picked up the phone and answered, asking who'd called him so urgently.

"It's me, Adam. Vince…Vince…shhh, BE QUIET DAMMIT HE'LL HEAR YOU," shouted Adam, immediately realizing what he'd done and cowering further into a corner of the closet.

"Adam what the hell is going on with you four? Where are you anyway," he asked. "And speak up, I can't hear you."

"I can't speak up, and don't shout so much, he'll hear you," said Adam.

"Who'll hear me," asked Vince. "Are you drunk Adam? Did you four go out and get drunk last night, cause so help me god if you caused any trouble I'll…"

"No, none of us are drunk dammit…well, maybe the Frenchman. Listen, Vince, he's here, the ghost is here, and we're all going to die," said Adam, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes wide with fright.

"Did you just…Adam, what the hell did you just say," asked Vince, a wondrous tone to his voice.

"Vince…WE SEE DEAD PEOPLE!"

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So, after a long layoff, here's the go on me:

a) I have the possibility of moving to Alaska

b) I have officially crawled out of a window and onto a rooftop

c) I need to realize that drinking three liters of wine then deciding to do minor deconstruction in order to get out of said window is a bad idea…let this be a lesson kids: don't get drunk near open and available windows.


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